The Catch

Mark, again.

On a screen, gaunt,

beer bottle catching a hard, flat light.

It’s the eyes, always the eyes.

Empty.

Felt it in my own gut,

that old, cold dread

twisting, a knot I thought I'd cut.

But it’s there, a phantom limb

aching for the thing it knew.

Later, digging in my wallet,

a yellowed slip of paper

for some trivial thing, a small, forgotten buy.

The corner crinkled,

a receipt for nothing much.

Just proof I was somewhere.